“Two words,” Liz says, swivelling her chair dramatically to face Inglis and Sharon, “Twitter Q&A's.”
She hears a pen drop. She assumes it's (one of) Finn's.
“One word: no,” Inglis replies.
“I’ll - someone will filter the questions before they reach you, of course,” she adds, unheeding of this initial rejection, as usual. “But it has to be authentic.”
“Should we register everyone for Instagram, while we're at it?” Finn's voice chimes from behind her.
Insults based on her previous job usually mean that he's still warming up. “No, because you shouldn't take photos,” Liz retorts over her shoulder. “Your big head casts a gigantic shadow.” She pauses. “That was about your arrogance, by the way. Any applicability to cranium size is a coincidence.”
“Charles, now is an opportune time to shore up our media presence in a casual, non-threatening way - ”
“Like the buzz surrounding a public sector mouser cat, but with the top brass instead. Isn't Liz perfect at the forefront for that sort of thing?” She finally whips around to give Finn a stink-eye, just in time to catch the start of his smirk - was he waiting for her to turn? “God bless America, our shiny, genetically-gifted bastard child with a rebellious streak and a superiority-inferiority complex.”
“Finn,” Liz snaps, “try to calm the fuck down and not cream yourself at the 9 a.m. meeting.” Inglis doesn't leap to his defense. Finn recoils slightly at her jab, smirk faltering near-imperceptibly.
“Save it for the 3:30,” Tom adds, boy-scout gleeful as usual, then looks thoroughly chastised when nobody laughs.